Divergence
by Aurilia
Summary: What if, instead of waiting for Merle to rescue him from their dad, Daryl had engineered his own rescue? How would later events have changed? A/U from the midpoint of S2E1, rating for language and canon-typical violence.
1. Divergence

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This is marked A/U for a reason – I played the 'what-if' game, fiddled with Daryl's backstory, and this is what resulted. Though I use some of Daryl's revealed history from later episodes, this runs A/U from the first night after Sophia ran off. Hopefully, y'all manage to enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Warnings:** Contains a multitude of 'bad language', canon-typical violence, and probably other things that some might find offensive. Daryl Dixon is the main character, after all, and he might have a soft'n'gooey center, but _damn_ if it ain't covered in gravel and ground glass! If any of this offends, fuck off and find something else to read. Life's too short to get upset by something you've found on the internet – particularly something in a fanfic.

* * *

><p><strong>Divergence<strong>

Daryl glanced up at the group getting ready to bed down for the night. He could just make out their faces – all grim and stressed and fearful – in the rapidly-fading twilight. Tearing a strip of duct tape off the roll, he quickly finished fixing the lens of a car's tail-light over a powerful halogen flashlight he'd found in the bed of an abandoned pickup truck. The resulting red beam wouldn't screw with his night-vision – which was, in fact, why car's tail lights were red to begin with, or so he'd always assumed. When he was finished, he packed away the other supplies he'd need into a scavenged black backpack of the sort he'd used once upon a very long time ago to haul around school books.

The pack contained a half-dozen bottles of water, a couple of cans of beef stew and fruit cocktail, a small first aid kit that had been in the glove compartment of the same pickup where he'd found the flashlight, a hobo tool (1), and a navy blue fleece throw. Content with his supplies, he turned his attention to his crossbow and its bolts. Once it had been checked over, his hands drifted to the nine-millimeter tucked into the back of his jeans, then to his hunting knife, and lastly to the jackknife in his pocket. _'Bout as ready as possible._

He watched the group for a moment. Carol was leaning heavily on Lori's shoulder. Despite the skin-blistering heat bouncing up off the pavement and parked cars, Daryl shivered, thrown back into the memory of pacing between the house and the start of the driveway, ass-deep in snow, with it still falling. _Diana said they'd be back by nine. It's already midnight. Where the hell are they?_ Radio had said they'd closed US-20 out of Cody as of eight o'clock. And it was midnight with no word.

Forcibly shaking himself out of the flashback, Daryl turned and headed into the forest. _Not gonna happen. Not again. Nobody's gonna be stuck wonderin' fer _months _what happened to that girl._ He followed his and Grimes' tracks back to where Sophia's trail had faded. He waited until he was well clear of the interstate before switching on the flashlight, then stepped up his pace. Not even a half-hour later had him reaching the walker they'd butchered to make sure it hadn't been chowing down on the girl.

From there, it was a simple matter of following Grimes' backtrail. His own had faded too much to see – habit had made him step lightly when they'd spotted the walker. It wasn't long before he reached the point where Sophia's trail had disappeared. Beginning with the last tiny impression that came from the heel of her right sneaker, he cast about in concentric circles, taking care that not a single inch of ground was missed by his high-powered flashlight. With full dark on him, the heat of the day had managed to fade some, though the cloying, sticky humidity only increased as the air grew cooler. His ears kept a firm lookout, as did his nose, but the only sounds he heard were crickets and cicadas and mosquitoes overlaid with frogs and the far-off yipping howl of a coyote. His nose picked up the normal scents of the forest, threaded through with the foul stench of decay he'd learned to live with – it would only alarm him if the stench grew strong enough to indicate a walker was nearby.

_Don't care how long this takes. Ain't gonna be left wonderin'. Not again. An' if she's been bit, I'll take care of it. But we ain't gonna be left wonderin'. No way in hell._

A satisfied smirk appeared on his face when, after nearly three hours of meticulous scanning, he spotted a single oak leaf crushed in the worn waffle-tread pattern from the girl's sneakers. A few feet further on and he found a downed tree trunk, covered in springy moss, that bore a fading impression of both feet and her right hand.

A thrum of satisfaction set in. _Was right ta head out again. Sign woulda blown off or been gone by mornin'._ He pressed onwards, idly swatting a mosquito that landed on his exposed bicep before it could bite him.

A scrap of blue and a couple of brown-blonde hairs caught at the edge of a blackberry briar were his next indication that he was on the right track. A couple of feet later and he found a mass of her prints. Scanning the bushes, he found a distinct lack of berries within arm's reach of a twelve year-old girl. _Good girl,_ he thought. Beyond the bushes, her tracks became more visible again. He was about to follow them when a sudden rustling had him freeze.

The flashlight beam swung to the source of the noise without any input from Daryl's brain. A small red fox poked her head out from under the briar, let out a low growl in Daryl's direction, then quickly disappeared. _Don't worry, ma'am,_ he thought at her retreating tail. _I ain't after you._ He took a slow, measured breath, then fished out a bottle of water. Taking a couple of swallows, he continued with his self-appointed task.

He lost the trail again when the creek swung around. It took him almost until dawn before he found it again – the girl had splashed through the brook for nearly a mile and a half upstream before exiting on the far side. _Dunno if she did it knowin' it'd help keep them walkin' pussbags offa her if they track by smell, but if she did she's the smartest one of the whole damn group so far._

The sun was just breaking over the horizon when he emerged from the forest and into a small overgrown clearing surrounding a ramshackle house that had been falling apart for far longer than the world around it. Daryl could hear the slow, shambling shuffle inherent to walkers coming from the far side and ruthlessly suppressed the urge to shout for Sophia.

Silently, he slipped around the house's walls and spotted the walker – he'd once been an older man, dressed in grimy bibs and a tattered flannel that revealed numerous bites on both arms – halfway between the house's back door and a small building that Daryl was pretty sure was an outhouse. He brought his crossbow up and fired. The bolt went through the walker's temple and it slowly collapsed to the ground.

Daryl strode over and retrieved his bolt, cleaning it off with a handful of dewy grass. He reset the crossbow with the same bolt, then cautiously made his way into the house. His ears were on high-alert in the gloom within the building, but no alarming noises filtered through the cicadas and crickets and morning birds. _Farmer John musta been the only one here._

He shouldered his bow. "Sophia!" he called out, using a strong whisper that was sure to carry. He waited a moment before repeating it.

Some faint rustling, followed by a low whimper came from somewhere off to his left. Daryl's pulse picked up and he followed his ears. "Sophia! It's Daryl. You here, girl? Yer ma's worried sick abou'cha."

Another small whimper, then a low groan – not at all like the groan of a walker, more like the groan of someone with stiff muscles – sounded. Daryl cautiously approached a small door set into the wall of the grungy kitchen. "Sophia," he said, using a low tone of voice, "that'd better be you and not one of them damn pussbags."

"Daryl?" Sophia's voice reverberated slightly through the thin door.

Relief flooded through Daryl and he re-sheathed his knife – he wasn't sure when he'd grabbed it. He reached out with his other hand and opened the pantry door. Sophia blinked blearily up at him from a nest of ratty blankets tucked under the bottom shelf. "Is Mom with you?"

Daryl shook his head. "No. She's back with the others. Had ta track you all fuckin' night ta find ya. Get on outta there."

Sophia began to crawl out, then paused and looked up at him with a panicked expression. "The back yard! There's a walker out there!" she almost shouted.

"I got that sumbitch," Daryl assured her. "Now, c'm on. Let's get on back ta the others."

The girl clumsily extricated herself from her nest and winced as she stood upright. She shook first one foot, then the other, grimacing as she did so. "Pins'n'needles?" Daryl asked.

Sophia nodded. "Yeah."

"Small price ta pay for a safe sleepin' spot," he said, shrugging out of the backpack. He sat his loaded crossbow on the rickety kitchen table and dug through it. "Hungry?"

"Yeah," this time the word was a bit more enthusiastic.

He handed her a pop-top can of fruit cocktail. "Best eat quick. Din't tell the others I wasn't stickin' 'round camp all night. They're gonna be wonderin' where I got to pretty soon."

The girl nodded, popped the top off the can, and chugged the syrup off the fruit in one go. Daryl followed her example with the second can of cocktail, then used his jackknife to spear chunks of pear out of the can. "Don't ya like peaches?" Sophia asked, noticing that he was carefully picking his way around them with his knife.

Daryl shook his head. "Nope," he said. "Know how a peach is fuzzy?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the damn things _taste_ fuzzy ta me. Ain't never liked 'em any." He speared a grape and a half a maraschino cherry with his knife.

A tiny smile flitted across Sophia's face, partially obscured by the can. She wasn't bothering with picking out pieces – she was simply letting the chunks fall into her mouth. Daryl spotted the smirk out of the corner of his eyes. "What?" he asked.

"Nothin'," Sophia said, the smile disappearing at the slight irritation in Daryl's voice.

"C'm on – what was the smirk?" He picked out another couple of pear chunks. He made sure to try to keep his voice from reflecting anything other than curiosity. _Girl's been through enough a'ready. Sure havin' a pa like Ed weren't no picnic, an' gettin' chased like that yesterday pro'ly sucked, too._

"Nothin'," Sophia repeated, focusing on the rapidly-dwindling contents of her can.

"Weren't nothin', else ya wouldn't be smilin'," Daryl didn't have to reach too far to find the old teasing tone he hadn't used in close to six years, and it surprised him a little.

"Just…" Sophia glanced at Daryl and saw the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his face. "Well – they're gonna hafta revoke your Georgia citizenship, you not likin' peaches an' all."

The comment startled a laugh out of Daryl. "No nevermind on that, girl – I done revoked it m'own damn self. Ain't lived in Georgia since I turned eighteen."

Sophia quickly polished off the last of her breakfast and sat the empty can atop the empty tin of kippers she'd had for supper the night before. "You live in Wyoming now, doncha?" the question was quiet, but it was said with a tone of certainty that meant she already knew the answer.

"Now how'd ya know that?" Daryl asked, poking through his remaining fruit to see if anything edible remained. When he saw that it only contained peach chunks, he handed it to Sophia.

The girl ate a mouthful of the fruit before answering. "Your truck – it had Wyoming plates on it. I know everyone else either didn't notice, or thought ya picked it up after things started comin' apart, 'cause ya still got a Georgia accent."

_Definitely the smartest damn one of the bunch,_ he thought. "Fair enough," he said aloud. He waited until she'd finished wolfing down the rest of his own breakfast, and then asked, "You ready ta head on back?" as she tossed his can to lie with hers in the rubbish bin.

Sophia nodded – the pins'n'needles had faded. "Yeah," she said. Daryl returned the backpack to his shoulders, then picked up his crossbow. Just before they were about to leave, the girl asked, "What I can't figure is what you were doin' back in Georgia. Were ya on vacation? Visitin' family?" This question wasn't as quiet as the last one, and it told Daryl that she was starting to realize he wasn't about to start thumping on her for running off.

Daryl shrugged and said, "Sorta. Merle just got outta prison 'bout two weeks before the shit hit the fan. I come down ta try an' talk 'im inta goin' back ta Wyomin' with me. He wouldn't even listen any, though. So I agreed ta stick around a coupla weeks, just 'til he found a place ta stay. Was gonna head back home the day the emergency news broadcasts started up." He opened the door and poked his head out to check for walkers. Seeing the coast was clear, he motioned for Sophia to go first.

Sophia hesitantly stepped outside and looked around. She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding on seeing the overgrown yard was walker-free. "An' ya got stuck here," she said as Daryl joined her on the rickety porch.

"Yeah," Daryl agreed. "I got stuck here." He took a quick look around and double-checked that the area was free of walkers, then said, "Stick close, girl. An' if we come 'cross any walkers, keep yer trap shut. Might be able ta sneak around 'em."

* * *

><p>Back at the disabled RV, the rest of the group was beginning to wake up and get ready for the day. Daryl's disappearance went unnoticed until most of the way through breakfast. Once it became clear that he was nowhere to be found, tempers – already on a hair trigger from the general circumstances of the world in which they now lived – flared white-hot.<p>

"That damn good-for-nothing rednecked hick!" Shane ranted. "Just takin' off in the middle of the night! Thought you told him you wanted him to help find Sophia?" he shouted, leveling a look at Rick that said _this is what you get for thinking you can lead_.

"The motorcycle is still here," Rick calmly pointed out, "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Privately, he thought it unlikely – the man's weapons were all missing. "Yeah, we'll miss his tracking ability, but I'm sure the rest of us can compensate for its loss. Now, who's got the maps? We need to stop wasting daylight and see if we can't find Sophia."

After figuring out where they were on the map, where Daryl had last spotted the girl's tracks, they agreed to begin their search by following the creek. And like most people when out in the forest and coming across a running body of water, they followed it downstream.

* * *

><p>Daryl consulted his mental map of the area – yeah, sure, it'd been nearly nineteen years since he'd last been to this part of Georgia, but the route the interstate took hadn't changed in all that time. Instead of following the backtrail, he decided to shortcut through the woods directly to the road. <em>Can make better time on the road than we can hoppin' logs an' climbin' hollers.<em> After about ten minutes of picking a relatively clear way through the forest, he asked, "How come ya din't just run back ta the group? I saw yer tracks outta that pool by the root-cave. You was headin' the right way, then ya veered off."

"Saw a walker," Sophia replied. "It had its back to me, but I could tell it was eatin' somethin'. I hoped it'd be too busy with whatever it already had to come after me."

_Ah – that'd be the one me an' Grimes found._ "Good job on walkin' through the creek, then. Dunno if them pussbags c'n hunt by scent or not, but if they _can_, ya did good. Didja know the creek'd wash yer scent away by walkin' in it?"

Sophia shook her head and wished she hadn't dropped Daisy – her doll – the day before. "Not at the time, but now ya said so, I remember seein' somthin' about that on one of the videos they showed in my science class."

"How come ya were in the creek then?" Daryl asked, glancing sideways at the girl. She was constantly twisting her head around, looking at the forest, and startling slightly at every little noise, with her arms wrapped around her chest like she was hugging herself. _Day she had yesterday, though, ain't nobody can blame her for bein' a mite twitchy._

"My feet hurt," Sophia explained. "The water was cold – it made them feel better. But now my sneakers are all squishy inside."

"Ya din't take 'em off when ya were sleepin'?"

"Wanted to be able to run if I had to," Sophia said, leveling a look at Daryl that clearly said _do you think I'm an idiot?_ and hinted at the teenager she was about to become.

"Fair enough," Daryl replied.

They walked on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Sophia asked, "So… What did ya do in Wyoming? I know they got a buncha natural gas wells out there – learned it in geography. Or didja work on a ranch?"

"Neither one," Daryl replied, pausing to dig a water bottle out of the pack. He twisted off the cap and handed it to the girl as they stood next to a ginormous old oak tree. She took a quick swallow, and leveled a questioning look at him. "Worked in Yellastone Park," Daryl grudgingly admitted, handing her the bottle cap and pulling a second bottle out for himself. "Park ranger there for the last fourteen years."

Sophia took another drink, then screwed the cap back on the bottle. "That how come ya know so much 'bout the forest an' huntin' an' stuff?"

Daryl tossed his half-empty bottle back in the pack and motioned for her to follow him as they headed back to the road. "Nah. All that started 'cause I got lost in a place like this – Georgia forest, I mean – back when I was a kid."

"How old were you?"

"Eight," Daryl replied. "Lost on m'own for nine days. Lived offa raspberries an' learnt the hard way what poison oak looks like. Eventually found my way back home. First thing I did was head ta the kitchen an' make m'self a sandwich." That had been the last time Merle'd been in juvy; when he turned eighteen and was released, he immediately joined the army.

"S'pose I can see why ya wanted to learn 'bout it all, then," Sophia said, sidestepping a moss-covered root.

They continued on without any further conversation for about another hour. The underbrush took a sudden upswing, and Sophia spotted a satisfied smile lurking around Daryl's eyes. Though she'd been scared of the Dixon brothers back when they'd first shown up at the quarry camp, neither one had bothered her any. Merle had preferred making rude comments to the women, and Daryl hadn't interacted with anyone much aside from Merle – he'd just take off into the woods every couple of days and come back with meat, or fish, or mushrooms, or an entire backpack full of wild carrots, onions, and other fresh veggies. They had been loud… Well, _Merle_ had been loud. But neither of them had ever laid a hand on anyone at the quarry. She'd also seen them both give her dad dirty looks that day Mom had shown up with a split lip – Mom had accidentally dropped the last bottle of beer, making the contents foam out all over the floor of their tent. She'd decided long before they'd left the quarry behind that though they weren't good li'l church-mice like Mom, they weren't really _scary_. Not like how Dad could be scary.

Now, having been found by Daryl when she'd been so horribly, horribly lost, she was finding that her assessment was correct – Daryl might not be a church-mouse, but he wasn't a _bad_ guy. She looked at that eye-smirk once more. "What is it?" she asked.

"Road can't be too far from here. See all the bushes? Means this part o'the forest's gettin' more light." He began looking for a relatively easy path through the brush.

It took them a solid twenty minutes to fight their way through the tangle of vines and bushes that blocked the last few yards. Emerging into the bright noontime sunlight glittering off of the glass and finish of the vehicles blocking the interstate, they both took a moment to stare. "Think this is the same damn jam," Daryl muttered, then looked in the direction the cars had been heading. Sophia twisted her head to look, too, and spotted a little green sign up ahead. It was a mile-marker, and it indicated they were about five miles from where the RV had broken down yesterday.

Daryl stifled a yawn, then sighed. Sophia chewed on her lip for a moment, then said, "You gotta be tired – you was up before any of us yesterday, an' ya spent all night lookin' for me. Sorry 'bout that, by the way. I really _tried_ ta get back to the group."

Daryl shook his head and said, "Don't you worry none about it. One of the ironclad rules of life's that shit happens. Yesterday was just one o'them times. Important thing's that I found ya. But you ain't wrong – I'm damn near _beat._ An' we ain't gonna be makin' as good of time as I wanted, not across all this." He gestured to the miles-long traffic jam.

"I didn't sleep good, neither," Sophia said, her eyes drifting to a white semi truck that was stopped along the shoulder along the median. The familiar blue font of 'WalMart' stood out starkly against both the truck and its trailer. "A nap might be a good idea for both of us." She began picking her way through the cars to the parked Freightliner.

"Hold up, girl," Daryl hurried after her. He caught up to her next to an '84 Suburban with blood smearing what was left of its windows. "I think a nap'd be a good idea, but it ain't like we got nobody to stand watch."

Sophia grinned at him. "Won't need none."

"Huh?"

She pointed to the WalMart truck. It had a sleeper cab, just like Dad's. "If it's unlocked, we can sleep there." She didn't mention that it'd need to be free of anything dead, too. She figured that went without saying in this new world of theirs. "Dad was a driver. Used ta take me out with him durin' the summers sometimes."

Daryl looked at the truck and scratched the back of his neck. The truck was tall enough that any walkers that might happen by wouldn't be able to just glance in and see them. _Kid's definitely got a better head on her shoulders than anyone else in this damn group_. He shrugged. "Won't hurt nothin' ta check it out, I s'pose."

The Freightliner was unlocked – in fact, its keys were still in the ignition – and the cab was clean and neat. A small grocery bag hung from the passenger chair's armrest, half full of soda bottles and fast-food wrappers, with a fluorescent orange vest hanging off the back of the seat itself. Behind the seats, there was a column of cabinets on either side, then a set of bunk beds. The lower bed was all made up with sheets, pillows, and blankets, but the upper bunk was only covered in a faded green sheet.

A steady knocking had Daryl reaching over and opening the passenger side door. Sophia climbed up and grinned at him. "What?" he asked.

"It's real hot in here," she said. "But, if the batteries're still charged, we might be able to have some AC, too."

"Can't risk runnin' the motor," Daryl said, shaking his head. "Be loud 'nough ta draw any walkers within earshot."

"No – this one's got an APU. It's kinda like an air conditioner. It hardly makes any noise at all," Sophia said – she'd seen the black mesh grate that the truck had instead of a passenger-side sidebox as she had climbed up the passenger steps.

"Well, hell," Daryl flopped onto the lower bunk and began unlacing his boots. He gestured absently to the dash. "Do what ya gotta." _Hard ta believe Fuckwit Ed an' Rabbit Carol are her folks. Maybe Carol jumped the fence? Sophia sure don't look much like neither of them…_ He brushed the thought aside and focused on freeing his feet from his boots.

Sophia maneuvered around the gearshift lever and settled herself on the driver's seat. She twisted the key to the 'aux' setting and grinned as the radio lit up and static poured from the speakers. She quickly turned the radio off, then slipped back to the bunk area and peered around Daryl. "Couldja reach back and twist that temp-knob to the cold setting? And turn the fan on, too."

Daryl looked over his shoulder and saw a small stack of controls in the corner of the bunk behind the driver's seat. He did so, then looked at Sophia. "That it?"

"Should be. This is just like Dad's truck, 'sept his was blue. It takes a minute to kick on." Even as she was finishing up explaining, a low hum started up from underneath the passenger side of the bunk. Air began cycling through the rear vents, hotter than the air outside at first, but rapidly cooling down. Sophia toed out of her wet sneakers, then climbed over Daryl and into the upper bunk. There weren't any blankets, but a black duffle bag, half-full of dirty clothes, sat at one end. Sophia snagged it to use for a pillow.

"You gonna be alright up there?" Daryl asked, shrugging out of the backpack. He sat it on the passenger seat and locked both doors, then sat his crossbow on top of it.

"Yeah," Sophia replied. "You might wanna check the cabinets – under the bunk, too. Might be something we can use."

_Definitely the smartest damn one of the bunch,_ Daryl thought, examining the bed he'd been sitting on. A small latch held it closed. He released it, then lifted the bed. Pneumatic cylinders helped in getting the damn heavy thing upright. The space under the bed was crammed with tools on one end, the black box of the AC unit on the other, and the middle space was packed with an empty canvas suitcase and half a flat of Red Bull. Wrinkling his nose at the Red Bull, Daryl pushed the bed back to its normal position. "Nothin' underneath that we can use right now. When we leave, though, 'mind me ta grab the crowbar." A sturdy pry-bar made a formidable weapon against walkers.

Sophia scooted to the edge of the bed and began poking around in one of the cupboards. "This one's fulla clothes. Might be somethin' that'll fit ya," she said, then slid across to examine the upper cabinet on the passenger side.

Daryl ducked under the still-open door and rifled through the clothes. There wasn't much worth taking – it was mostly t-shirts and jeans, all of which were several sizes too big for him. He did grab the unopened package of socks, though. It didn't matter that they were for the next size-group larger than he wore – clean socks were clean socks, and all of his had holes in them. He shut the door, then bypassed the next door down – it was a glass-fronted mini-fridge, and he could see mold growing within. _No sense subjectin' ourselves ta the stink._ Underneath the fridge was a cupboard holding a couple of pairs of boots, a pair of flip-flops, and a blue backpack similar to the black one he'd been carrying. He pulled out the pack and rifled through it. It contained a rolled-up towel, a shaving kit, two combs, and a bottle of three-in-one that smelled a bit like sawdust and pine. He glanced up at Sophia as he closed the cabinet, setting the pack on the driver's seat with his crossbow. "Anything good?"

"Lotta DVDs," Sophia replied, closing the door. The vast majority of the movies featured photos of naked women on the covers. "If this guy carried any food with him, then he must've kept it there," she pointed to the one unexplored cupboard remaining.

Daryl opened it up and they were rewarded with half a case of bottled water, several cans of off-brand ravioli, soups, and fruit, and a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Daryl split the find equally between both backpacks, then picked up one of Sophia's sneakers. It was still wet enough inside to squelch when he flexed the sole. "These're damn near wore out, girl."

"I know, but Dad said they had to last me until school started up again in the fall. They're getting too small for me, too. Rubbin' blisters into my heels and between my toes."

The distant sound of a church bell interrupted them. After a moment, Sophia said, "Think that means someone else is still alive?"

Daryl shrugged. "Could be. Hope it keeps up, though. That noise's loud enough ta draw most of the walkers in the area to where it's at, an' they won't be botherin' us none." He sat Sophia's sneaker back on the floor, then stepped next to the bunks. "Lemme see these blisters of yours," he said.

Sophia peeled off her pink socks and tossed them towards her sneakers. One landed on the dashboard, and the other landed on the gearshift. Daryl winced at the condition of Sophia's feet. Both of her heels had blisters the size of silver dollars, with similarly-sized blisters on the balls of her feet. The skin between her two smallest toes on her right foot was irritated and pink, and the same place on her left sported another blister. "Damn, girl – how come ya didn't say nothin'?"

Sophia shrugged. "What couldja have done about it?" she asked.

Daryl was forced to admit she had a point – short of carrying her, there hadn't been much that he could have done. _But we ain't walkin' nowhere for at least a coupla hours._ He retrieved the blue backpack and rifled through the shaving kit it contained. Retrieving a cheap plastic safety-razor and a tube of generic clotrimazole (2), he then got the first-aid kit out of the pack he'd brought with him. He used his jackknife to pop apart the plastic razor, then used an alcohol wipe to sterilize the blade. "Sit still, 'Phia," he said. "Promise this won't hurt none."

"There's a box of Kleenex," the girl volunteered, pointing to the cabinet where she'd found the movies.

"Thanks," Daryl said, retrieving the mostly-empty box from its place.

Using the razor, he carefully sliced the blisters on Sophia's feet open and let the fluids drain out into the tissues. Once that was finished, he slathered both of her feet with the anti-fungal cream, and then pulled a pair of the laughably-oversized new socks on. "Dunno what mighta been growin' in the creek," he explained, seeing the girl's curiosity about the cream. "Woulda rather used Neosporin, but we don't got any."

"It feels squishy, but not in a bad way," Sophia said, wriggling her toes inside the socks.

"An' when we get goin' again, you're gonna leave them damn too-small sneakers b'hind," Daryl said. "Don't care if I gotta carry ya for a spell. Shoes what don't fit are worse than no shoes at all."

He gathered up the things he'd used, putting away what was still usable and tossing the rest in the garbage bag on the passenger seat armrest. Sophia amused herself for a bit by seeing how far up she could pull the socks. The heels fit nicely over her calves, and the tops could have pulled all the way up to her underwear, if her capris hadn't been in the way. Daryl ignored her and flopped on the lower bunk. "You want one of these pillows or a blanket?"

"Nah," Sophia replied, smushing the duffle into a better shape. "I'm good."

The air from the vents was starting to cool the cab down, and Daryl stretched out and closed his eyes. He was asleep within moments.

Sophia tried to sleep. She was tired and her feet were finally starting to feel better now, but all she could do was stare at the ceiling. Sighing, she tried lying on her stomach, but that didn't work either. After about ten minutes, she gave up and lightly climbed down. Daryl was snoring softly and she grinned at the faint whistling noise. She moved the new pack to sit on the floor in front of the passenger seat and settled herself behind the steering wheel. She smiled at a memory from the beginning of summer – Dad had taken her with him on a run to Houston. They'd gotten there early, and his truck had been unloaded almost immediately. While waiting for his next load, Dad had taken her to a truck stop that had been all but deserted and had let her drive the big rig around the lot for a little while. _"Whacha say, Sofa," he'd asked, the nickname enough to tell Sophia that he was in a really great mood, "you gonna get yer permit when ya turn twenty-one an' co-drive wi' yer ol' man?"_ She'd agreed, of course, not wanting the good mood to die. It had, though, right about the same time they'd gotten back to Palmetto.

_Wonder why Dad always got in a sour mood any time he an' Mom were together?_ She sighed. _Not like it matters any more, now does it? I really miss you, Dad. Even when you were in a bad mood or gone on a trip… _She sighed again and forcibly turned her attention to something – anything – else. She noticed a thick manila envelope on the dash and picked it up. _I bet it's the bills for whatever this guy had been haulin'. Wonder if there's anything good?_ She pulled a thick stack of print-outs from the envelope and began reading. _Back-to-school stuff already? It's barely June! Lemme see, there's a buncha baby stuff, too. Ah – clothing. Shoes! Maybe there's a pair of shoes that'll fit me. Batteries might be worth checking out. Laundry soap. Fireplace matches!_ _Might want to take some of those, too. I know the group's gettin' low on matches an' lighters._

Once she'd read through the papers, she returned them to the envelope, then climbed back into the upper bunk. She'd spotted a book in among the DVDs and hoped it would be something that didn't feature naked boobs. It wound up being a western by an author she didn't recognize. By the end of chapter two, she realized she was reading the book that they'd made Dad's favorite John Wayne movie from. She was asleep before she could finish chapter three.

* * *

><p><em>Daryl pulled his parka tighter around himself and squinted through the snow. It was falling thick enough that he could barely see the porch light on the house from the corner of the garage. <em>Diana, where the fuck are ya?_ he thought. _You got Jo with ya, too, an' y'all damn well know better than ta make me worry like this._ The snow just fell onwards, piling up in drifts that were well over his head. His boots slipped on a hidden patch of ice and as he picked himself up, he saw the Cherokee half-buried under melting snow. Its front end was crumpled around a lodgepole pine and the roof was caved in flush to the seats within. Strong arms held him back. "Lemme go!" he shouted. "Damn it, Mike! 'At's Dian's Jeep! Lemme the fuck go!"_

_Mike just held on tighter. "No, Dix, you don't need to be seein' what's left," he said, not letting go._

_Daryl gave a mighty lurch and wrenched free of the sheriff's grip. "Diana!" he shouted. "Jolene!" Stumbling over rocks and ice and exposed roots, he hurried to the months-old wreck. He peered through the thin slip of space where windows used to reside and reeled back at the scent of human decay._

_Diana and Jolene reached out with hungry hands and pulled him into the shadows within the wrecked Jeep._

Daryl woke with a shuddering jerk, his pulse hammering in his ears. Once he managed to get his breathing back under control, he let out a quiet, "Fuck." _As if the nightmares weren't bad enough _before_ them fuckin' dead cannibals started roamin' the streets._

"Who's Diana?" Sophia whispered. "Jolene?"

Daryl swung his feet off the bunk and sat there, scrubbing a hand across his face in lieu of answering. "I wake ya up?" he asked, his voice choked with gravel.

"Yeah," Sophia admitted, still whispering. "I don't mind, though. Sounded like a bad dream." Her voice was laced through with sympathy – she'd had her own nightmares since the world had started falling down around them. "Was about ta climb down an' wake you up when ya woke up on your own."

Daryl looked out the windows. The shadows indicated they'd slept about two hours or so. _It'll hafta do_. "You ready ta get back ta yer ma?"

Sophia climbed down and stood between Daryl's feet. "Yeah," she said. "But you didn't answer me – who's Diana an' Jolene?"

Daryl knew that even though Sophia was only twelve, that particular expression on a woman's face meant she wasn't about to be deterred from her line of questioning. He sighed and dug his wallet out of the inside pocket of his vest. He flipped it open to the plastic-covered photographs and held it out to Sophia.

Sophia gingerly took the wallet. The photo it was open to showed Daryl wearing a blue-and-black checkered flannel shirt, standing next to a pretty blonde woman wearing a yellow sundress, with a girl of about five or six – wearing a dress that matched her mom's – between them. "Diana was m'wife," Daryl said. "Jo was our li'l girl. They died in a car wreck 'bout five an' a half years ago. Jo woulda been about yer age," he finished in a tight voice.

Sophia looked at the photo for a solid minute, then carefully folded the wallet closed and handed it back to him. "What happened? Was it a drunk driver?"

Daryl shook his head and returned the wallet to his vest pocket. "Nah," he said. "They was doin' some Christmas shoppin' in Cody an' one hellacious winter storm blew in. Closest the cops could figure was that Dian' hit a patch of black ice an' went through a gap in a guard-rail – someone else'd crashed through that same spot 'bout a week earlier. Din't find out what happened 'til the spring melt, though. Was nearly th' end of April afore I found out what'd happened ta them."

To Daryl's surprise, Sophia wrapped her skinny arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug that damn near choked the stuffing out of him. "Sorry," she said.

Daryl didn't know if she was apologizing for what had happened or for asking in the first place; he didn't think it mattered. He patted her back, only a little awkwardly, and simply said, "Thanks."

When Sophia let him go, she stepped back until the backs of her legs hit the gearshift, and said, "Let's find me a pair of shoes an' get back to the group, yeah?" She shoved his boots over with her sock-clad feet.

Daryl swallowed hard past the lump in his throat that showed up any time he talked about his lost girls, and quickly pulled his boots on. "Sounds like a plan to me," he said, grateful for the change of subject.

"'Cordin' to the papers, the truck was haulin' a buncha stuff that might be useful," Sophia commented as he laced his boots. "Matches and batteries… and shoes."

"Convenient," Daryl said, tying his left boot. The right was already done. "Hope they got somethin' that'll fit ya. Should try an' hurry back before the rest of the group gets anxious ta leave."

"Think they'd leave without us?" Sophia asked, moving to sit on the driver's seat. She looked hard out the windows and used the mirrors to see if any walkers were about.

"Nah, I don't think they would, but Grimes an' Walsh were in a hell-fired hurry ta get to Fort Benning," Daryl replied, retrieving the flashlight from the backpack and slinging his bow over his shoulder. "Coast clear?"

Sophia nodded. "Far as I can tell," she said, opening the door and climbing down.

It took about ten minutes to get the trailer's door open – it'd been locked, but among the tools the driver had on hand were a pair of bolt-cutters. An hour later, and Sophia had herself a brand-new pair of hiking boots, two pairs of jeans, a package of underwear, and four t-shirts. Daryl had managed to locate the box of fireplace matches and had used his hunting knife to cut them all down to normal match length, packing as many as would fit into a pair of the cylindrical boxes they came in. The batteries, however, were all odd sizes meant for things like hearing aids and watches, and so were generally useless. Before they set out again, they took the time to repack both backpacks. Sophia took the blue one, and in addition to her clothes, carried one of the cylinders of matches and about one-third of their found food. Daryl had the shaving kit, first-aid kit, and the rest of the food, as well as the flashlight and fleece throw blanket.

"Ready?" Sophia asked, adjusting the straps on her pack.

"Are you?" Daryl countered.

She grinned at him. "Yeah."

"'Kay," he replied, then handed her the crowbar. "You best be watchin' my back, ya hear?"

She took the iron pry-bar. It was heavier than it looked, but she figured she could still handle it. "If you watch mine," she said.

Daryl gave her a real, honest smile. She returned it, and they started on their way.

After the best part of three hours of scrambling over and around stalled cars, many of which would have been candidates for a wrecker service if such things had still existed, Daryl glanced at the lowering sun. The last mile-post they'd passed had indicated the group was still a solid two miles away, and the last of his nap had worn off. He could tell Sophia wasn't doing so well, either – she was limping on both feet, not badly, but enough that he knew those blisters weren't doing her any favors, and he had seen her stifle a yawn a half-dozen times in the last half-hour.

"Hey, hold up," he said as the girl made to climb over where an empty horse-trailer was hitched to a station wagon. A single hoofprint in a tarry patch on the road told Daryl how the occupants of the wagon had escaped the jam.

"What's up?" Sophia asked, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"I don't think we're gonna make it back by dark, an' I dunno 'bout you, but I know _I_ don't wanna be tryin' ta make this trek at night." He gestured to the mass of vehicles.

"So… Where're we gonna sleep?" she asked.

Daryl shrugged. "If it was up ta _you_, where would ya go?" he asked, scratching a mosquito bite on the back of his neck.

Sophia frowned, then chewed on her lip. "Hmm…" She shrugged off her backpack and handed it and the crowbar to Daryl. "Hold these for a minute, will ya?" Daryl took them, but sat them at his feet. He wanted his crossbow readily available, just in case. He watched in silence as Sophia carefully climbed atop the station wagon, then up onto the horse trailer. She shaded her eyes and turned in a full circle. "There's a trailer just ahead. Couldn't see it from the ground, cause that Ryder van's in the way."

"What sorta trailer?" Daryl asked.

"The camper kind. Like Dale's RV, but the kind that's hauled b'hind a pickup."

"What if it's got a body in it?"

Sophia dropped her hand and stared down at Daryl. "You think it might?"

He shrugged and spat at the ground. "Never hurts ta have a backup plan, Sophie."

She echoed his shrug, then returned to scanning the area. "Well, there's another big truck on the other side of the camper," she said. "It ain't got a trailer, but _is_ a sleeper cab like the one from earlier."

Daryl gave a nod. "Okay. Sounds good enough to me. Come on down from there."

Sophia sat down, scooted to the edge of the trailer, and said, "Catch me?"

"You got up there on yer own. You can get down on yer own."

Sophia sighed, rolled her eyes, then turned onto her stomach and blindly felt with her feet for the 'windows' along the side of the trailer. A couple of minutes later, she was back on solid ground and pulling her backpack back on. They'd just started heading towards the camper when a distant gunshot halted them in their tracks.

"What d'ya think happened?" Sophia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Ain't none of the group's guns," Daryl reassured her. "Sounded like a thirty-aught-six huntin' rifle. Ain't nobody in our group's got one of them. Pro'ly some dumbass takin' potshots at a walker, not realizin' the shot's gonna call in any in hearin' range."

They reached the camper just as the sun touched the western horizon. Its door was locked. Daryl didn't want to just break it open – the entire point behind choosing it as their place to sleep was the ability to lock the walkers out if the need arose – and so circled it twice, peering in through the windows. "Don't think nobody's home, so-ta-speak," he said.

"How're we gonna get in?"

"That's the easy part," Daryl replied, then climbed up onto the pickup's bed, then atop the trailer, much in the same way that Sophia had scaled the horse-trailer. "Toss me the crowbar, then get up here."

She climbed up onto the bed of the Ford pickup, then threw the crowbar at Daryl. He nearly fumbled it, but managed to catch it before it slid off the camper. He then gave Sophia a hand in climbing up onto the roof – it was taller and smoother than the horse-trailer had been. Daryl used the crowbar to pry open the bathroom skylight, then used it to pop the screen and fan out of the way. "Think you can fit through there?" he asked.

Sophia looked at the small square and nodded. "Easy-peasy."

Daryl lowered her through the opening, then handed the crowbar down to her. _Just in case_. It was a needless precaution, however, and in just a moment, Sophia had the door open.

The camper was a little newer than Dale's RV, but was also somewhat messier. From the stuff scattered about, Daryl was pretty sure the thing had been owned by a woman – there was no sign whatsoever of a man's presence. The camper's batteries were proven to have lost their charge when he tried turning on a light, but the stove still worked. He used a small pan from the cupboard to heat a couple cans of ravioli, then dug out a pair of bowls and some silverware. Sophia cleaned off part of the table while he was 'cooking', and had their dishes laid out with a pair of bottles of water.

Despite how hot and sweaty the day had been – save for those blissful hours within the air-conditioned Freightliner – the hot food tasted heavenly. The exertions of the past two days soon surfaced in Sophia. The girl nearly face-planted into her bowl before she was done eating.

The camper had a small bunk housed in the area that extended over the bed of the pickup truck, and Sophia tiredly climbed up into it. She didn't bother with using any of the blankets it contained, and was asleep before Daryl could blink. Daryl himself was definitely feeling the need for another nap, but went around the camper and closed all the blinds, making sure the windows couldn't be forced open, and ensuring the door was securely latched and locked. Once that was done, he borrowed the camper's bathroom, then headed to the bed at the rear.

Oddly, it wasn't as comfortable as the twin had been in the Freightliner, but was still better than sleeping on the ground. Disturbing dreams plagued him for a while, then they went away and he enjoyed a peaceful, dreamless rest.

* * *

><p>Sophia woke in the middle of the night needing to use a bathroom. It took her several confused minutes to recall where she was and how she'd gotten there. Once she remembered, though, she began worrying about her mom. She padded silently to the bathroom and scowled up at the broken skylight – it was raining, hard, and the light was centered right over the little cubicle of a room. <em>Nothin' for it, Sophia, <em>she sternly told herself. _Ain't like you're gonna melt, after all._

She did her business as quickly as she could, then used a hand-towel hanging off the teeny oven in the kitchen to dry off. A faint whimper came from the bedroom at the back of the trailer as she was about to head for the front bunk. _Did Daryl get hurt?_ she wondered, then headed to see if there was anything she could do. When she entered the room, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust – out in the main camper, the blinds were thin enough that there was still some faint grey light filtering in from outside, but in the bedroom there were thick curtains as well. Once she adjusted, she saw that Daryl had to be dreaming.

She heard him mutter something that could have been 'Jo' or 'no', and suddenly felt guilty for having asked about them earlier. She carefully climbed onto the bed next to the man and gently laid a hand on his head. _His hair is really soft,_ she thought, then slowly stroked her fingers through it. _This always helps me when I have bad dreams. Hope it does the same for him, too._

Daryl's restless sleeping slowly settled, but he didn't wake up. Sophia grabbed the pillow he wasn't using and laid down next to him, still petting his surprisingly soft hair. The repetitive motion calmed a part of herself, too, and she soon found herself slipping back to sleep.

* * *

><p>Daryl opened his eyes in the gathering gloom of pre-dawn. The drop in humidity was enough to tell him that there'd been at least some rain during the night. A warm ball was pressed up against his back. Slowly, he sat up and looked, though he was pretty sure he knew what that warmth was. Sure enough, when he looked, he saw the faint outline of Sophia curled up on the other half of the double bed. <em>Musta had a bad dream,<em> he thought, then pulled on his boots, unaware that the sentiment was correct, but directed at the wrong individual. He twitched aside a curtain and peered out.

The sky was spattered with some slowly-fading stars and the eastern horizon was beginning to show signs of sunrise in the not-too-distant future. Wet pavement and puddles confirmed that it had rained. _Hope it was enough to cool things down for a couple of days._ Leaving Sophia to sleep, he headed into the combined kitchen/dining/living area of the camper. He dug the flashlight out of his pack, turned it on, and sat it so that the red beam was aimed at the ceiling, giving him more than enough light to work with, then set about checking the cupboards to see if there was anything useful.

He found several items which, if not useful in the long-haul, would at least make breakfast a good deal more satisfying than it had been in over a month. A box of just-add-water pancake mix held just enough powder to make food for him and Sophia, and a brand-new bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's had been stored right next to it. In the next cupboard, he hit what he considered to be 'paydirt' – a percolator and a half-full can of Folgers Classic. He set coffee to brew, then mixed up some pancake batter. Sophia blearily stumbled out at about the same time breakfast was ready.

"Sleep good?" Daryl asked as she sat in 'her' seat at the table.

Sophia yawned and nodded. "Yeah. It rained last night."

Daryl sat a plate of pancakes in front of her. "Saw that. You ready ta head back ta yer ma?"

Sophia peered at the plate in front of her. "Water molecules?"

"Was aimin' fer Mickey," Daryl replied, somewhat sheepishly. "Jo… She was always wantin' Mickey Mouse pancakes."

Another stab of guilt shot through Sophia. "I'm a little old for Mickey, but water molecule pancakes are cool, too," she said, drowning them in syrup.

Daryl scoffed. "C'm on, girl – ya ain't never too old for Mickey Mouse."

Sophia quirked an eyebrow at him. "Tell ya what," she said, slicing a hydrogen atom off the top molecule, "you make me a Bugs Bunny pancake an' then we'll talk."

Daryl snorted hot coffee into his sinuses. "Shit!" That hurt. A lot. His eyes watering a little from the sting, he sneezed into his shirtsleeve. "You are somethin' else, Sophia. Ya know that?"

Sophia gave him her very best 'who me? I'm a certified angel' expression. It was only slightly ruined by chewing. She swallowed, then grinned brightly at him. "Dad says – _said_ – the same thing."

More than just a bit uncomfortable with the comparison to Ed, Daryl sidestepped the line of conversation that Sophia's comment had opened, instead choosing to focus on his own pile of Mickey pancakes. The coffee was a treat beyond imagining, too – he hadn't had coffee, let alone _good _coffee, since the morning he picked Merle up at the state pen.

"These're good," Sophia said around a mouthful of syrup-saturated pancake. "Be even better if we had some blueberries."

"Girl after m'own heart," Daryl replied. "Strawberries'll do in a pinch, though. Not bananas, though."

Sophia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Gross. Who puts _bananas_ on _pancakes_?"

"My ma loved 'em with bananas cooked inta them," Daryl said. "Never could figure how she could stand 'em that way – always thought the bananas made 'em slimey."

"Chocolate chips," Sophia chimed in. "My favorite are chocolate chip pancakes."

Daryl drained his coffee and refilled the mug. "Yeah, right up there with M'n'M pancakes."

"M'n'Ms in _pancakes_?" Sophia sounded scandalized.

Daryl mopped up the last bit of syrup on his plate with the last bite of pancake and washed it down with coffee before explaining. "After our ol' man took off the last time, Merle stepped in. His special Saturday breakfast was M'n'M pancakes, topped with Hershey's syrup an' whipped cream." Daryl smiled to himself. "Those were some good times. Was seventeen at the time, an' Merle'd just gotten outta the army – he was twenty-six." He didn't bother mentioning that his older brother had been dishonorably discharged for whaling on a superior officer. "After breakfast, Merle'd take me out an' teach me 'bout bikes an' cars an' stuff. If there was still daylight, we'd do some huntin' or fishin' on the way home." That was before Jessica and her brother, Lucas, and their party-hearty attitude stepped in and ruined things with laced pot that rapidly had Merle escalating from sometimes sharing a joint with Daryl to doing lines of coke and meth and – one particularly memorable time – LSD. None of that, though, was anything Daryl thought appropriate to share with a twelve year old girl.

Sophia had a hard time imagining the rude, crude Merle not only cooking pancakes, but making _desserty_-style pancakes. Something of her skepticism must have shown on her face, because Daryl leveled a light glare at her. "M'brother weren't always the raving dickhead y'all met at the quarry, ya know."

"What happened to make him… that way?"

Daryl shrugged and toyed with his half-full mug for a moment. "Some of it were our ol' man, some of it was his time in the army. He'd been sent ta Iraq. Desert Storm. Come back a li'l fucked in the head if ya ask me. Always had been a troublemaker, though, an' stead of straightening his shit out when he got home, he got in with a coupla fuckwit dealers. Shit just wound up goin' hella-downhill from then. I'd hoped his last stint in prison – he got busted for possession with intent – woulda been a wake-up call. But then the walkers showed up…" he trailed off with another shrug.

Sophia had talked around her dad's less savory habits for long enough that she could tell when someone else was doing the same thing. _I'm bettin' his dad and mine weren't really all that different. Except maybe his was _worse_. Dad at least had good days. Like that trip to Houston, or the one where he took me with him down to Miami._ Sophia quickly finished up her breakfast. "Was there anythin' worth takin'?" she asked, pushing her own empty plate to rest next to Daryl's.

"Dunno, din't really look," Daryl said, polishing off the last of the coffee. "Gonna be takin' the percolator, though. Don't care if I gotta tie the damn thing to m'pack, it's comin' with us."

They spent a few minutes checking through the camper for anything useful. Sophia didn't find much that they could carry with them, but Daryl met her back in the living area with his hands full. He handed all three items he'd located to her. There was a thin black leather belt with a simple goldtone buckle, a fillet knife in a brown leather sheath, and a brand-new hairbrush still in the package. "Ya might wanna do somethin', girl – yer lookin' a bit like a thistle-blossom."

"A what?" she asked, blinking at him.

"A thistle-blossom. It's got this round head with purple petals that stick up in all directions. Would it make more sense if I tolja ya looked like ya stuck yer finger in a light-socket?" Daryl grinned at her amused/affronted expression.

She stepped into the bathroom with the brush in hand and looked at her reflection in the mirror over the miniscule sink. She grimaced. _He was right,_ she thought, pulling her headband off. She winced as it pulled a few strands of her rat's-nest hair out with it. _I look like I'm tryin' ta be Albert Einstein, for cryin' out loud!_ The brush soon had the tangles all smoothed out, and she put her headband back on.

"You right-handed or left-handed?" Daryl asked when she rejoined him at the kitchen table.

"Right, why?"

"Then yer gonna wanna thread the knife onto your belt on the right side, so it hangs just behind the belt-loop on that side, between your front an' back pockets. That way, it's outta the way, but ya can still get to it if ya need it," Daryl explained. At her somewhat surprised expression, Daryl quirked an eyebrow at her. "Ya think I'm gonna letcha run 'round wi' only the damn _crowbar_? An' yer s'posed ta be watchin' _my_ back, ya know."

"If that's the case, ya gonna teach me ta shoot?" Sophia asked, threading the belt the way he said to through her new jeans – her capris were bundled up at the bottom of her backpack with her other dirty clothes.

"That's up ta Carol," Daryl said. "When we get back, I'll talk ta her. Can't promise nothin', though." He waited until she had the belt buckled and then asked, "How're yer feet, by-the-way?"

Sophia wriggled her feet inside her hiking boots. "Still a li'l sore, but they don't really hurt. Not like they did yesterday."

"You lemme know if they start buggin' ya, 'kay?"

Sophia nodded. They then packed up their things and Daryl poked his head outside, crossbow in hand, to make sure the way was clear.

It was.

* * *

><p>Sophia sat on the hood of an old yellow Mustang, her backpack and Daryl's piled next to her against the windshield. Daryl's crossbow and handgun were lying atop them. She had her knees hugged tightly to her chest and was rocking slightly, in time to the sounds of crashing glass and crunching metal.<p>

Daryl was using the crowbar to beat on every abandoned vehicle within range, indiscriminately shattering windows and tearing holes in fenders.

She knew he was angry – beyond angry, beyond even _furious_ – that much was obvious. And she was scared. More scared than even when those walkers had chased her into the forest.

But she wasn't scared of _Daryl_. Not even with him as mad as a wet cat as he oh-so-obviously was.

She was scared _for_: Her mom. Carl. Andrea. Even Deputy Walsh and Mr. Grimes.

They weren't waiting for them.

The group had left them behind.

Sophia rocked just a little harder, not noticing that thin tears had streaked down her cheeks. No, she wasn't scared of Daryl. She wasn't even scared that the group had left them – _her _– behind. She was scared of what might happen now that Daryl wasn't protecting her friends any more... Though she did have to admit, if only to herself, that if she had to pick _one_ person to be left behind with, it would've been the hunter. _No, he's not just a hunter, Sophia. He's a park ranger, or _was_. He's one of the 'responsible grown-ups' that the teachers were always tellin' us to find if we ever got lost on a field-trip. I'll be okay. He'll make sure of it._

Daryl gave one last thwack to a station wagon, then dropped the crowbar with a clang onto the pavement. Panting, he leaned over, his hands braced against his knees.

"Better?" Sophia called out, her rocking motion ceasing.

Daryl heaved a great sigh and straightened after scooping up the crowbar. "Yeah. Fuckin' bastards."

"They think I'm dead, don't they? An' that you went off ta look for your brother."

Daryl ambled over to the Mustang, carefully setting the crowbar down on the hood as though it were a poisonous spider looking to bite. "Yeah," he said, not meeting Sophia's eyes. "That's damn well what I'm sure they fuckin' did." He leaned his elbows against the hood of the car and held his head between his hands for a long minute. Once he was breathing easier, he sighed and looked Sophia straight in the eyes. "I'm certain yer right. They pro'ly figured ya couldn't survive this long on yer own, an' that I took off after Merle, an' they headed on ta Fort Benning without us. Whaddaya say we catch up ta them?"

Sophia slid off the hood of the car. "Well, we won't catch up if all you're gonna do is stand around beatin' on cars."

"Don't be a brat," Daryl chided, though his tone was closer to teasing than any sort of reprimand.

Sophia stuck her tongue out at him and handed him his crossbow. "So... Gonna teach me to shoot before we catch up?" she asked, gently picking up Daryl's nine-millimeter and handing it over.

"Might not be a bad idea," Daryl admitted, tucking the gun back into the rear waistband of his jeans. "I'm countin' on you ta help keep me alive, after all. Wanna find a suppressor, first, though. I ain't about ta go ringin' the dinner-bell for every fuckin' pussbag in hearin' range."

Sophia handed him his backpack and picked up her own. "So... Which way?"

"Well, we know they ain't goin' down I-85, else we woulda passed 'em on the way. I'm bettin' they backtracked to that side-road China-boy marked. It was about three miles back. Highway 154, I think."

Sophia picked up the crowbar and began walking back the way the caravan had come before getting blocked in by the traffic jam. Daryl's fury had abated as quickly as it had come. Now, he was simply exhausted. _Girl's got the right idea, though. Let's keep on. Hopefully, we can catch up ta the rest of them before too long._ He whistled to get the girl's attention. "Hey, 'Phia – plan on walkin' the whole way?"

She halted, turned, and leveled a 'you-have-got-to-be-joking' look at him. "Um... Yeah? 'Less ya think one of these," she gestured to the victims of Daryl's temper-tantrum, "will run."

Daryl let out an exaggerated sigh and stepped back and to the left a bit, revealing Merle's motorcycle parked right where he'd left it. "Dunno 'bout _them_, but I know _this_'ll run."

He'd never seen anyone actually face/palm before. He had to admit that it was a rather amusing gesture. "Forgot about your bike," Sophia admitted, dropping her hand and looking at him. "But... I ain't never been on one before."

"It's easy," Daryl said, situating himself on the bike. "Just put yer feet on them pegs, hold on tight to me – mind m'bow – an' lean the same way I lean. It'll help, at least at first, ta keep yer eyes closed."

After the first few terrifying minutes, Sophia pried her eyes open. It was more fun that way.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:** I wrote this mostly to get it out of my head. I _can_ continue it – I have notes for additional stories within this 'verse, but what you've just read is what'd been bugging me to distraction lately. If I do wind up writing more for this, it'll be posted as additional chapters, not as stand-alone stories (just so y'all know what to keep an eye out for, of course).

1) A hobo tool is sort of a Swiss-Army-knife-esque pocket thingie that has a fork, spoon, knife, and can opener. I've also seen them with corkscrews.

2) Clotrimazole is the active ingredient in over-the-counter athlete's foot treatments like Lotrimin AF.

Kindly lemme know what y'all think! Thanks in advance.


	2. Show Me the Way

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This installment for this 'verse picks up with Rick's group after the farm. Some of the opening dialogue is taken directly from the episode, but don't just skim it – Daryl's absence from the farm had consequences and the opening scene references some of those changes.

**Warnings:** Language, canon-typical violence, and an alarming amount of feels in this story. Sorry if it comes off as corny.

* * *

><p><strong>Show Me the Way<strong>

**Now**

Rick, Carl, and Hershel quietly hid behind the Suburban while a lone walker in the world's most-hideous sweater ambled past them; the thing didn't even notice they were there. "Okay," Rick whispered, motioning for Carl and Hershel to follow him around the rear of the vehicle. "Come, come, come." Every movement jarred his recently dislocated-and-Hershel-reduced left shoulder, making it throb in time to his pulse.

Once the walker was out of earshot, Hershel whispered, "I don't know how much longer we can stay here," while holding his shotgun with both hands and scanning the wrecked ruins of the traffic jam.

Carl rocked up on his tiptoes to peer through the Suburban's rear window, across the seats, and through the windshield at the retreating walker. Landing back on the flats of his feet, he looked up at his dad. "I'm not leaving without Mom."

A spike of anger flitted through Rick at what he thought Hershel was implying. "So we're just gonna walk away?" He glanced at the walker before continuing, "Not knowing if my wife, if your girls are still out there? How do we live with that?"

Hershel wasted no time. "You've only got one concern now – just _one_." He glanced meaningfully at Carl, then settled his eyes on Rick. "Keeping _him_ alive. Nature may be throwin' us a curve-ball, but _that_ law is still true."

Rick looked at his son, a vise-grip settling in his chest to match the dull throb of his shoulder. Hershel was right. Rick couldn't stick around without risking Carl's life, and that was something he simply wasn't prepared to do – not after coming so close to losing him. He swallowed hard, then looked around, half-expecting Lori to come storming out of the forest, but quickly brushed off the flight of fancy. He crouched down to meet his son's gaze. "Carl," he said, having a little difficulty breathing around the vise that wanted to crush him. "It's not safe here." He watched his son fight to control himself – tears born of either anger or sadness or a bit of both welled up and Carl sniffled, not giving in to them. "We –" the rumbling noise of an engine cut him off.

Not quite believing his eyes, Rick straightened up as the sound drew closer. Within heartbeats, the lime-green compact that Shane had claimed pulled into view, followed closely by the Greene's battered blue Ford pickup, and trailed by the RV. One by one, the vehicles edged across the median and found room to park. People quickly boiled out of them.

"Oh, thank god!" Lori cried, seeing Carl and Rick waiting for them, as she climbed out of the Ford. She rushed to her son and gathered him in her arms. T-Dog leapt lightly from the truck's bed, a long and bloody machete in his remaining hand, while Beth hopped out from the driver's seat. The blonde rushed for her father and all but tackled him. Jimmy, looking deathly white and more than a little green about the edges, exited the RV and slipped over to join his girlfriend's family.

Maggie and Glenn got out of the lime-green import and Maggie hurried over to her sister and dad while Glenn slowly ambled over as Rick stood from the quick group-hug he'd been participating in with his wife and son. "Where'd you find everyone?"

Glenn shrugged. "Well, Jimmy found us. Turns out he followed our taillights off the farm. We caught up with Beth, Lori, and T-Dog at an intersection, then all headed this way." He returned the enthusiastic handshake Rick offered, despite how Glenn was relatively certain none of it had really been his doing, aside from mentioning that they should head for the traffic jam where they'd lost Sophia.

"Where's the rest of us?" Jimmy asked, his arm wrapped around Beth's shoulders.

"We're the only ones who made it so far," Rick replied.

Lori quickly straightened from her embrace with Carl. "Shane?" she asked. Rick couldn't answer, not completely – what Shane had tried, what Rick had been forced to do… It was still too new, too fresh a hurt to vocalize. He simply shook his head.

"Andrea?" Glenn asked.

"She was heading for Carol," T-Dog said. "Saw her take down a couple walkers, but then…" he trailed off – everyone knew what 'but then…' entailed.

"Patricia?" Hershel asked.

"They got her, too," Beth said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Took her right from me." A sob interrupted her. "I was holdin' on to her, Daddy, but –" Maggie and Hershel and Jimmy pulled tighter around the blonde and held on tight as she cried a bit for the woman they'd lost.

Rick gave them a long moment before clearing his throat. "We can't stay here – there've been walkers crawlin' all over."

"I say we head east," T-Dog said, wiping the gore off his machete with the leg of his jeans. The movement was a little awkward, but not as bad as it had been just two weeks earlier – he was slowly acclimatizing to using what had been his off-hand for everything since his right arm had developed gangrene and had needed to be amputated just above his elbow. "Head for the coast."

Rick nodded. "Could do," he said, thinking. His thought-process was interrupted by the return of the sweater-clad walker.

"I got it," Glenn said, then used the hatchet he had tucked in his belt to cave the ghoul's head in. Maggie let go of her family to walk over and offer him a blue bandana to clean the hatchet. "So – the coast. We gonna head for Savannah, maybe try for one of the islands, or go a bit further south?" Glenn focused on cleaning off his hatchet while he posed the question.

"Further south," Rick replied, mentally picturing Georgia. "'Bout halfway between Savannah and Brunswick – somewhere around Saint Catherine's Island or so. Don't wanna be too close to a big town, but we'll wanna be within easy distance of supplies."

"Same should go for how we get there," Hershel said, rubbing circles on Beth's back. "Avoid the larger towns as we go. Best bet would probably be to head to 154, then take sixteen past Senola and pick up a few dirt roads I know that will take us around Griffin and onto nineteen into Zebulon."

"Okay," Rick said, nodding. "That'll do for a start. Still have those maps in the RV?" he asked of Glenn.

Glenn shrugged. "Should be. I'm pretty sure they weren't taken into the house. So… Are we takin' all these? Or are we gonna group-up?" he gestured to the vehicles that had carried them off the farm.

"Unless someone's a mechanic that I don't know about, I think we oughta leave the RV," Rick replied. "Dale –" he cut himself off for a moment; it still hurt, the absence of the older man, and how he'd died would forever be branded into Rick's memory. He shook his head once, hard, making his shoulder twinge in protest. "Dale could barely keep the damn thing runnin'," he said. "Figure we should ransack what we can from these," he gestured to the nearby cars, most of which were missing their windows and had jagged tears ripped in their sides – _Were those always that way, or am I imagining things? They weren't… were they?_ There was something about the destruction surrounding them that was bugging him, but he had more pressing matters to attend, so he brushed it aside. "Pile the supplies in the back of the Suburban. Me, Lori, and Carl can ride in it. It's got room, I think, for three more. Wanna leave the rearmost seat behind, make more room for cargo. Think we'll want that green thing, too. It's pro'ly better on gas." Rick left the rest of the group to figure out seating arrangements while he started looking through what was available for supplies in the wrecked cars.

Two hours later, they'd managed to scavenge some clothes, blankets, and a little bit of food and water from the jam, along with enough gas to top off both vehicles. Beth and Jimmy joined the Grimes in the Suburban, while Glenn, Maggie, and Hershel took the import. With Hershel's in the lead, the two solitary cars wound over to the clearer side of the interstate and headed back to Highway 154.

It was a short trip – less than half an hour later, Glenn squinted through the window, blinked hard, then hit the hazard lights. Letting them flash three times, he turned them off and pulled the car to a stop at the top of the exit ramp they needed, next to an abandoned semi truck with a smashed-out driver's side window and a desiccated corpse dangling from the open driver's door. The Suburban pulled up beside him and Lori rolled the passenger window down. "Problem?" Rick called out, nearly shouting over Carl's and Lori's heads.

"Look," Glenn said, then gestured to the miraculously-clear ramp.

Rick turned and peered through the windshield, his mouth working silently for a moment. He finished, then let out a heavy sigh and turned off the Suburban. Scrubbing both hands across his face, he felt the wad of guilt he carried in the pit of his stomach grow exponentially larger, even as smaller pieces of himself were equally insulted and amused.

"This changes things, doesn't it, Dad?" Carl said, sounding far older than his barely-twelve years.

Rick nodded. "It does, son," he looked at the message left for them in day-glow orange spray paint. "It most certainly does." He realized what had been bugging him about the cars where they'd all met up.

Daryl's bike had been missing.

* * *

><p><strong>Then<strong>

Unaware that the group's decision to leave them behind had more to do with the youngest of their number having been accidentally shot by a buck-hunter and then locating a place of relative peace and safety than any sort of belief that Daryl wasn't coming back, Daryl and Sophia backtracked up Interstate 85 to where Highway 154 crossed under it.

There were surprisingly few cars at the interchange, just another abandoned semi truck – an International, according to the logo on the grill – and a couple of mid-eighties beaters on the on-ramp. One of the beaters looked like it had gotten a flat tire, and they both had stopped. The off-ramp, though, once past the semi truck, was clear of everything save litter and oil spots. Daryl pulled up next to the semi and parked the bike.

"How come we're stoppin'?" Sophia asked.

"Need ta rearrange our shit," Daryl replied. "The bow's diggin' inta m'back, an' it can't be comfy for ya with it in the way like it is. 'Sides, I ain't really gone through the crap Merle had in the saddlebags. Gonna see if we can't move some of the stuff from the packs inta the bags, then maybe get rid o'one of the packs." He gestured for her to hop off the bike. Once she was standing on the cracked asphalt, Daryl swung his leg over the bike and stood. He stretched and his spine let out a long series of loud crackling noises. Until they'd left his truck behind after the CDC, Daryl hadn't been on a motorcycle with any sort of regularity since he was twenty.

Sophia winced at the popping of Daryl's spine, but ignored it. Her mom had a tendency to pop her knuckles when stressed, so she was used to the noise, but she thought it sounded like it should hurt. She took off the backpack and opened it up, setting the supplies it contained on the road surface. Daryl handed her his pack, then started in on the bike's saddlebags. While the girl was sorting out cans and bottled water and her few items of clothing, Daryl hurriedly retrieved the most worrisome item he knew his brother had been carrying – a gallon-sized ziplock baggie containing felonious levels of old-school blue meth and several prescription bottles. He read the labels on the bottles, saving the two half-full bottles of opiates, the lone bottle of antibiotics, and a small bottle of valium, then tossed the rest, bag and all, off into the overgrown weeds of the interstate's median.

The only other things he kept from the bags were Merle's .45-caliber snub-nosed revolver, the half-box of ammunition for it, and the Dixon family luck charm – an 1849 twenty-dollar gold piece that not even a higher-than-a-kite-Merle had been able to bring himself to sell or pawn. It had a small hole bored into it, and Daryl could still hear his Momma's voice telling him how his dad had given it to her instead of an engagement ring, her hands toying with the chain she wore it on around her neck. She'd given it to Merle when he'd enlisted, telling him to bring it back to her in one piece. Merle never got the chance – their mom died not even two months later.

Once the bags were cleared out, Daryl set to packing away their food and water, balancing the load so both sides were of roughly equal weight. "Pick which backpack ya wanna keep, Sophie, an' pack the clothes, my coffee, the flashlight, an' the blanket inta it."

Sophia did so, quickly bundling everything away. On noticing that, save for the plastic package containing four remaining pairs of socks, there weren't any of Daryl's clothes, she asked, "What about you?"

"What about me what?" Daryl looked up from securing the right bag closed.

"Where're your clothes?"

"Carol had 'em in the RV," Daryl replied. "Was gonna wash 'em an' maybe patch some o'the holes." Sophia frowned, then chewed on her lip as she gazed around at their surroundings. "Why's it matter?" Daryl asked.

Sophia shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. Truthfully, she thought he was starting to stink more than just a little. Stale sweat and walker-gore and who knew what-all else did _not _make for a pleasant olfactory experience. Daryl saw the way her nose wrinkled, though, and could hazard a guess as to why she'd asked about his clothes. "You ain't smellin' like no bouquet of flowers yerself, there, Sophie."

Though it was true, kid-sweat didn't stink half so badly as grown-up sweat. Sophia glared a little at him. "Maybe so, but at least _I_ have clean clothes on. I'm pretty sure _yours _could stand up an' walk on their own right now."

Daryl looked down at himself. His jeans were encrusted from within by his own sweat, and from without by a mix of mud, walker-blood, walker-guts, and several spots of T-Dog's blood from when he'd bandaged the man's arm after the herd had passed. His sleeveless flannel wasn't much better off. And he _really _needed to find some saddle-soap soon to wash his leather vest – it hadn't been cleaned since Diana had taken it to the dry-cleaner two weeks before her disappearance. Granted, it'd hung in his closet for the vast majority of the time since then, but still… He sighed. "Could be yer right," he allowed. "But yer gonna hafta live wi' it for now, 'Phia. Ain't like I can just walk inta any ol' store an' grab some new duds. Hafta clear the place first."

Sophia shrugged. "Maybe not." At Daryl's 'explain now' eyebrow, she gestured to the abandoned semi. "Ya found them socks in a truck. Most of the cars we passed had suitcases an' stuff in them."

"Alright," Daryl conceded. _One of these days, I'm actually gonna win an argument with her. _He mentally rolled his eyes. _Sure, Dix – an' right after, yer gonna keel over from a heart-attack. This girl _can't _be Ed an' Carol's kid. Maybe she was adopted…? _He blinked hard to dispel the thoughts. "I draw the line at wearin' someone else's underwear, though." He waggled his index finger at her with mock-severity.

Sophia grimaced. "Yuck. I don't blame ya any. I wouldn't wanna wear someone else's underwear, either."

Hefting the crowbar, Daryl walked over to the semi and tried the door handle. _Might as well start lookin' here an' now. _It was locked. So he grabbed the mirror and pulled himself up on the first stair-riser, then bashed the window out with the crowbar. He reached over the jagged remains of the window and pulled the handle, and managed to knock himself off the step as the door swung open, cracking his skull against the asphalt in the process. A wave of putrid rot boiled out of the cab as he shook black glitter from his vision. A rasping groan drifted out a moment later, and – his head still spinning – Daryl tried to scramble to his feet, but something had caught his right boot.

He heard Sophia let out a high-pitched shriek through her nose, and the rattling groan of the truck's resident walker cut off suddenly. "'Phia!" Daryl shouted, jerking his foot and hoping to free himself. His vision still swam blearily – it had only been a few seconds since he'd fallen. "Sophia!" he shouted again, this time with more urgency.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," she replied, sounding utterly nauseated.

Daryl relaxed and closed his eyes until the phantom motion of the earth rocking under him stilled. He could hear Sophia move several paces off behind him, and then retch miserably for a long minute. He slowly sat up and disentangled his boot-laces from where they'd caught between the stair-riser and the bracket that held them to the rig's fuel tank. The walker – an older man, with long white hair that had once been pulled into a ponytail – had Sophia's fillet knife sticking out of its temple as it dangled half-out of the truck's driver-side door. He pulled the knife from its skull, wiping it on his jeans, and walked over to Sophia.

She was bent over, her hands against her knees, and breathing hard through her teeth. He laid a gentle hand against her back. "Done?" he asked.

She nodded. "Think so."

"Ya did good," he said, handing her the knife. "Ya likely saved m'life back there." Sure, he'd been humoring her when he'd said he was relying on her to watch his back, but… _She proved she can do it. Twelve or not – she din't hesitate. Think I might hafta keep that promise an' teach her how ta shoot. _He watched as Sophia gingerly took the knife back and stared at it. "Yer gonna wanna clean it off wi' rubbin' alcohol afore ya use it on anythin' edible – just in case, o'course."

"Can I have some water, please?" she asked, her voice small and her eyes as big as saucers as she looked up at Daryl.

"After that?" Daryl hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the dead walker. "Ya can have a fuckin' _beer_."

A small smile twitched Sophia's mouth. "I just wanna rinse," she said. _He's joking… right? _From the expression on his face, though, Sophia wasn't too sure that was the case.

Daryl settled her in a patch of shade near the bike with a bottle of water and the mostly-gone bag of Doritos. It might not be the best thing for someone who'd recently thrown up most of what they'd had to eat for the last day, but it was better than nothing. He headed back to the cab of the truck and picked up the crowbar, eyeing the corpse one more time. _Girl's got good instincts. Hit the fucker right where the bone's thinnest. _His eyes drifted from the dead body to a flash of neon orange just behind the driver's seat. He reached in and pulled out a grimy can of spray-paint. There was a second one, not as grimy, just behind it.

"Whacha gonna do with those?" Sophia asked, already starting to sound more like her usual self.

It might've been some residual confusion from the recent head-injury, or it might've been leftover rage at having discovered the group had up and left them behind, or it might've been the aftereffects of a sudden adrenaline spike – or it could have been a combination of all three – but Daryl grinned to himself, then shook the grimiest can. It was half-full.

He walked onto the off-ramp and began spraying the asphalt.

It took him the rest of that can and part of the second before he was satisfied.

Sophia waited for him to return, then asked again, "What was that for?"

"Go see," he replied, tucking the remaining spray-paint into an empty corner of his saddlebags.

Sophia walked to a point where she could see the whole message and promptly began laughing.

_To Grimes, Walsh, and the rest of you fuckers – _

_When I catch up to your faithless asses at Ft. Benning, I am going to shove my boots so far up your sphincters that you all will be able to use the laces for dental floss! If I was going to leave and look for Merle, I would have done it back when you all left him on that mother-fucking roof in Atlanta. __He__ left __me__, jackasses. He damn well knew where the fuckity fuck we were camped and could have easily come back, but he __chose not to__. I don't much appreciate being __abandoned__ by some two-bit county-mounties who weren't even __elected__ but __appointed__, probably by a relative! I'm tempted to hope you all fucking __starve__, but I'm not that big of an asshole._

_Carol – Sophia is fine. She's with me. _

– _Daryl L. Dixon_

The letters were a good three feet tall, and the whole message took up the entirety of the exit ramp. A large smiley-face took up a solid six feet of space next to Daryl's name. Sure, it had horns and fangs and looked to be about ready to _eat_ anyone who crossed its path, but it was still – technically – a smiley-face.

* * *

><p><strong>Now<strong>

Two days after finding Daryl's note, the group once again happened across more neon orange spray-paint. In this instance, there wasn't a note. Instead, two large targets had been painted – one on the surface of the road, and the second on the side of a building that had once been some sort of car-repair place, but had likely been closed since the mid-seventies, judging from the lack of repair and upkeep done to it.

"Think this was Daryl?" T-Dog asked, motioning to the target on the building. He and Rick had just finished checking it for anything usable; unfortunately, it was as bare as any abandoned shack had been before the world had fallen down about their ears.

Rick nodded. "I'm sure it was," he said. He handed T-Dog a broken arrow. The shaft had split from the nock to halfway down its length. The fletching was identical to the arrows both knew Daryl carried.

T-Dog took a closer look at the painted target. There were tiny little dings in the wood, like small slits, where he could easily picture arrows thunking home. Some of the tiny gashes were a little bigger, like the arrow had pierced deeper, or had come from a knife. "Can't see that man dullin' points on target-practice," he commented. "He's the best shot outta all of us. Back at the quarry, I saw him nail a squirrel right in the eye at better than three hundred feet." He jerked his chin towards the target painted on the road. Glenn and Jimmy were using the bull's-eye of it to set up their campfire for the night. "And that don't explain that one."

Rick shrugged. "Hell if I know, then," he said. He watched the group go about their business – Lori was opening some cans of soup for their dinner, Hershel was giving Carl a quick anatomy lesson, Beth and Maggie were setting up the tents they'd scavenged. He looked back at the target painted on the wall behind him and idly ran his fingers over the pock-marks. "Maybe he's teachin' Sophia how to shoot his bow."

T-Dog let out a disbelieving snort. "Doubt it, man," he said. "That bow's gotta have a solid sixty-pound draw to it. Ain't no way a kid could set the string."

Rick's fingers traced a dent in the painted wood. "Huh."

"Hmm?"

"Can't say about his bow – never was one for bows of any sort – but I'm willin' to bet real money he's teachin' her how to throw a knife. This looks like the sort of mark left when the handle hits instead of the blade."

T-Dog leveled a skeptical look at Rick, let out a harrumph, then strode over to help Jimmy get the fire going.

Rick stood there a little longer, watching his friends – his family – work together. _Hope to hell you're still out there, Dixon. We could use you. And I hope Sophia is still with you – else why're we even tryin'? _He shoved aside macabre, yet undeveloped, thoughts of the extinction of the human race. _But if you _are_ teachin' that girl how to survive, you got my blessing. This world, what it's become… _His eyes fell on Carl._ They're gonna need all the help we can muster._

* * *

><p><strong>Then<strong>

Daryl finished spraying the target on the ground, then handed Sophia a handful of small pebbles. "Show me ya can hit what ya aim at," he demanded, then stepped back a few paces.

"This isn't shootin'," Sophia complained, picking a quartz stone out of the bunch and tucking the small pink pebble into her pocket.

"Nope," Daryl agreed. "It ain't. But if ya can hit what ya aim at without usin' a scope or a sight – just usin' yer own two eyes and hands – then it don't matter what weapon ya use. Once ya learn how it works, you'll always hit what ya aim at."

"Okay," she drew the word out with blatant disbelief. "If you say so."

"I do say so," he said, opening one of their rapidly-dwindling bottles of water and taking a long swallow. _Think today's hotter than it's been all summer so far. _ "Go ahead," he gestured to the target. "Show me what ya got."

Sophia picked a pebble out of the pile and lightly tossed it at the target. It landed between the two outermost rings. She frowned, then tried again. That time, it landed less than three inches from the first. Letting out a small growl, she tried a third time, and managed to fling it several feet beyond the far side of the target.

"Okay – enough," Daryl said, seeing her frustration.

"But –"

He held up a hand. "No buts. How're ya throwin' it, 'Phia?"

"Huh?" she blinked in confusion at him.

"What're ya thinkin' on?"

"That I'm gonna hit the bull's-eye," she replied, her tone clearly conveying the sense of 'what else am I supposed to be thinking about?' underscored with a hint of impatience.

"Them words exactly?"

"Pretty much," Sophia agreed.

"That's yer problem. Don't _think _about hittin' the center, just hit it. Was ya thinkin' on anythin' when ya stabbed that walker this afternoon?"

Sophia shook her head. "I didn't have _time_ to think – it was gonna eat you, so I just reacted."

Daryl grinned at her. "See what I mean? Ya gotta keep yer mind still. Too much shit runnin' through it an' ya won't never hit _nothin'_. Ever skip rocks 'cross a pond?"

"Yeah."

"What's the longest skip ya made?"

"Ever?" Sophia chewed on her lip as she thought about it for a moment. "Um… Think it was thirteen skips. How come?"

"Ya thinkin' on anythin' in pa'ticular at the time?"

She shook her head again. "Not really. Was just wastin' time."

"'Member how that felt an' try an' make yer brain that calm, then throw for the bull's-eye."

Sophia took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. She slowly let it out, then picked up a pebble and, without thinking too hard, tossed it towards the target. It landed just outside the bull's-eye. A bright smile surfaced. She held on to the blank feeling and tried again. This time, the stone landed just inside the bull's-eye. Her smile grew bigger, and she tried again. The last stone hit the bull's-eye dead center. "I did it!"

Daryl gave her a solemn nod. "Ya did. Do it again."

Over the course of the next hour, Sophia managed to hit the bull's-eye nearly every time. The few times she missed were because a stray thought distracted her. The sun was skimming the western horizon when Daryl called a halt to her practice. After a supper consisting of two cans of cold chicken noodle soup, Daryl painted another target on the side of a nearby long-abandoned building. A full moon provided more than enough illumination.

"What now?" Sophia asked. "More rocks?"

Daryl shook his head and paced a good ten yards from the side of the building. Yeah, he could have done this at a greater distance, but – full moon or no full moon – he didn't want either of them wandering too far. He leveled his crossbow at the target and loosed the string. The bolt thwacked home in the exact center of the bull's-eye.

Sophia's WTF eyebrow crept towards her hair. "What's that for?" she asked, more than simply curious. "I _know_ you're a good shot – you don't gotta prove it to me."

Daryl snickered. "Nah, 'at ain't what it's for," he said, reloading the bow and moving it to his back. He had three more arrows in his hands. "You was gettin' pretty good wi' the rocks, so I figure ta move on ta somethin' a l'il different." He held one of the arrows in his right hand and jiggled it a little to find the balance, then threw it like an oversized dart at the target. It hit the wall less than half a millimeter from the arrow already there. Handing the remaining two arrows to Sophia, he then said, "Go on an' try. Ya can move closer if ya hafta."

It was definitely harder than throwing the pebbles had been, but she eventually got the knack. Daryl called a halt to the activity after only an hour or so. Using a pile of old crates and a rusted-out, long-forgotten dumpster as a make-do ladder, Daryl climbed up onto the decrepit service-station's roof. Using the flashlight to check it out, he decided it was safe enough, going so far as to carefully bounce on areas that looked particularly weak. Nothing broke under him, so he reached down and pulled Sophia up. _It'll do for t'night._

Once Sophia was curled up under the lightweight fleece blanket, using the backpack for a pillow, Daryl sat back and stared up at the sky. _Where the fuck did y'all go, ya dipshits? It's like y'all vanished off the face of the Earth!_ There had been some gnarly accidents blocking Highway 154 that they'd scooted around on his bike. _If they'd come this way, I'd think some of the wrecks woulda been pushed off to the sides._ He saw a bright flash of light streak across the sky. A tiny smile flitted across his face. _Let us find them,_ he silently wished. _Let us find them soon._

He glanced at the sleeping girl, then turned his focus back to the sky. _Then again, Dix – Dale's got more maps in that RV than any six cartographers. Could be they found ways around them wrecks. Hell, ain't like they really gotta worry none 'bout gas-mileage no more. Not for a few months yet._ Gasoline, Daryl knew, wouldn't remain usable forever, it would eventually separate and become useless. It took time, though – anywhere from a few months to a couple of years, but the sentiment remained the same: For the time-being, nobody really needed to fret too much about fuel economy.

_That rain last night… Might've cooled things down some this mornin', sure, but it erased any trace of where they might've camped. I know – I been lookin'. Ain't too good on the bike ta be runnin' at twenty, not when the damn thing's designed to run at sixty, but I can't afford ta miss somethin'._ He sighed and scrubbed a hand across the stubble on his face. In just another couple of days, it would qualify for full-on 'beard' status.

The worry he'd been nursing since that morning had dissipated some with Sophia's timely dispatching of the trucker-walker that had surprised them, but that teensy lessening of one worry only served to ratchet up another. _What the fuck are ya doin', Daryl? _This time, the thought reverberated in his brother's voice. _That girl – she ain't yers. Them assholes – they don't give two shits about ya. Why ya tryin' so fuckin' hard? Doncha got enough ta be keepin' on with in keepin' yer own self alive?_

Guilt at even _thinking_ about leaving the girl to fend for herself pushed imaginary-Merle's voice out of his head. "No," he whispered. "Ain't gonna. Not never." Sophia mumbled something and turned onto her side. Daryl took care to keep his thoughts inside his head again.

_No – I ain't gonna leave her b'hind. No kid deserves that, an' I should know. Granted, I got my own fool self lost that time, but when I got home ain't _nobody_ even knew I'd been gone. Everyone deserves someone ta miss 'em, someone ta go lookin' if they don't come home._

He stretched out, using an arm for a pillow, and closed his eyes. The worry and stress slowly relaxed their grips enough that he eventually slipped into dreams.

_Daryl found himself sitting on the bluff that marked the southernmost edge of their property. He was dangling his feet over the thousand-foot fall while Diana laughed at him. Jolene was in school, and Daryl had the day off from work, and he and Dian' had decided to take a walking tour of the land they'd just paid off. "So…" she said, settling herself next to him. "You gonna stare all day, or are you gonna give me an answer?"_

_Daryl smiled at her. "Ya know I ain't gonna stop ya, Dian'. Ya been talkin' on this since I met ya."_

_Only the threat of a gruesome and horrible death kept her from tackling him into a hug. Instead, she scrambled back from the cliff and pulled Daryl's hand to get him moving with her. Once he was on his feet and facing her, she proceeded to kiss him senseless. "So, we'll use my advance and get the fences set this summer, yeah?"_

_Daryl nodded – like he was ever gonna say 'no' to this woman. He reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair back under her fur-lined hood. The calendar might have said spring had started the week before, but in the high mountains, Master Winter hadn't yet moved out. "Yeah," he agreed. "But – the house ain't part of it. Right?"_

_Diana grinned at him. "I know, I know. You let me have it built how I wanted, but it's just gonna be postcard pictures. I figure we'll have a secondary fence built to keep the tourists away. Jerry said he can rig it so you need an access-code to open the gate or use a special coded remote."_

_The chill of mid-March disappeared, and Daryl found himself back on the rooftop in Georgia, Sophia sleeping soundly off to his right. He sat up and sighed in disappointment – the good dreams of his life with Dian' and Jo were few and far between, overshadowed by nightmares of finding them, of imagining what they had gone through during and after the Cherokee wrecked._

"_I wish you wouldn't do that, Dix," Diana's voice whispered in his ear._

_Daryl startled badly enough that he would have fallen from the roof if he'd been any closer to the edge. "Dian'?" he blinked in blatant disbelief._

_His wife was sitting next to him, the moonlight making her golden hair appear silver. She was wearing the yellow sundress she'd worn for their family portrait. She smiled softly at him and Daryl had to remind himself to breathe. "I'm here, honey," she whispered, caressing his stubbled cheek. "I'm always here."_

_Daryl couldn't reply, could barely keep his lungs working, but reached out and pulled her close, burying his face in the join of her neck and shoulder. "Don't leave," he eventually managed._

"_I wouldn't, even if I could, Dix," she whispered to him, running her hands through his hair. "I _can't_." She held on to him as tightly as he clung to her. "You're doin' a good thing, Dix," she eventually said._

_Daryl pulled back a little and met his wife's eyes. "Huh?"_

_She nodded towards the sleeping Sophia. "Lookin' after her," she clarified, a small mysterious smirk on her face._

_Daryl looked away from her face, focusing on a point in the starry sky above them. "Needs doin'," he eventually said, managing to wrestle the embarrassment into submission._

"_More than you know," Diana agreed, rather cryptically._

"Daryl," a voice shattered the dream.

He blinked his eyes open to see blue sky dotted with puffball clouds tinged with pink at the edges. Sophia's face popped into view. He yawned, stretched, and sat up. "Any reason ya woke me?" he asked, rather grumpily.

"I need ya ta help me down," Sophia replied, gesturing towards the corner of the building where their 'stairs' were located. "I really, really hafta pee."

Daryl yawned again, nodding somewhat blearily. "'Kay. Gimme a minute."

After managing to get most of the sleep-cobwebs cleared from his brain, Daryl stood and crept up the low slope of the roof to the peak, then took a long look around. He didn't see anything in the immediate area, so he ventured to the edge of the roof and made a complete circuit, just to make sure nothing was lingering just out-of-sight.

"Da-ryl!" Sophia's voice drew his name into its separate syllables, laced through with impatience.

Looking to the source of the frustrated noise, Daryl had to grin. Sophia was fidgeting more than just a little. "Alright, alright. I'm comin'. Hold yer damn horses."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Hate to tell you, but it ain't _horses_ I'm holdin!"

Daryl chuckled and headed over to her, grabbing the blanket and backpack on his way. He helped her off the roof, then stuffed the blanket back into the backpack. He carried it on one shoulder – his bow was slung over the other – as he climbed down after her. She stood next to the rusted-out dumpster and crossed her arms over her chest as she tapped her foot. What he'd been thinking of as her WTF eyebrow was locked firmly in place. "The boys' side is around thataway," she pointed to the corner made between the dumpster and pile of crates.

It was Daryl's turn to roll his eyes. _Is it my imagination, or did she suddenly sound just like Susannah Marcos did in eighth grade?_ Five minutes later, Daryl was digging through the saddlebags for breakfast.

Sophia ambled over, wearing a grimace on her face. "I miss toilet paper."

He shrugged and handed her a pop-top can of no-name peaches. "I miss ice," he commented, snagging their lone can of pineapple for himself.

"McDonald's," Sophia replied. "Chicken nuggets and vanilla milkshakes." She opened the can and slurped the syrup.

"Pears. Fresh pears," Daryl said, retrieving his hobo-tool to open the pineapple. "Papaya. Kiwis."

"Going swimming," Sophia added, her mouth half-full of peach.

"Hell, girl – end of the world don't gotta mean ya can't go swimmin' no more." Daryl pried the lid of the can open. He'd only managed to get it cut about halfway, but figured that was good enough for tidbits. He drank the juice.

Sophia shook her head. "No, I mean swimming in a pool. No bugs, no fish, no leeches."

"Never did like swimmin' in pools. The chlorine always makes my eyes burn."

"That's why we have these things called 'goggles'," Sophia's tone took a turn towards patronizing. "They're to keep the water out of your eyes when you're swimming. Maybe you've heard of them?"

"Smartass," Daryl muttered. "It's too damn early for smartassery."

"I don't think that's a word."

"Fuck me sideways," he breathed. "Yer a mornin' person, ain't ya?" She smiled brightly at him. He rolled his face to the pink-and-gold clouds above. "Just shoot me now an' have done with it."

Sophia patted his shoulder. "I _would_ – but ya ain't taught me to shoot yet."

In the back of his head, Daryl could almost hear his brother and father speaking in tandem, _Yer losin' ta a fuckin' l'il girl? What the fuck, Daryl?_ Their voices were easy to ignore. Instead of continuing a losing argument, he changed the subject. "Figure we got a coupla hours we can kill. Last night, you was gettin' pretty good wi' the rocks an' just throwin' the arrows. Still got that knife?"

Sophia nodded and transferred her peach-can to her left hand. She drew the blade with her right and held it up, chewing on her breakfast. She swallowed. "Yeah."

After finishing breakfast, Daryl walked them back to the target on the building and proceeded to demonstrate how to throw a knife. Sophia tried several times, but the handle kept hitting instead of the blade. "It's more in your wrist," Daryl corrected. "Yer still flingin' from the elbow."

By the time he'd called a halt to the activity, Sophia had managed to make the knife stick in the side of the building only once, and that had been well outside the target itself. "Don't fret on it none," Daryl reassured her. "Takes practice. You'll get it soon enough."

* * *

><p><strong>Now<strong>

Florescent orange targets proved better than breadcrumbs to Rick. Whether painted on the surface of the road or on the side of a building – or, in one memorable instance, on the end of a large round hay-bale – they started showing up with nearly clock-work regularity. Near as Rick could figure it, Daryl drew one every time they stopped to camp for the night, even though there was rarely any sign of a camp to be had.

On the outskirts of a small town – the sign proclaimed to be 'Cataula' – the targets he'd been following suddenly ceased. By this time, Rick was certain Daryl was taking Sophia to Ft. Benning – it was, after all, the last place the man had heard the group say they were heading. According to Glenn and his use of Dale's maps, they were only about thirty or forty miles from the fort.

Standing on the southwestern corner of the intersection of the road they were following and a gravel crossroad, was a very welcome sight: A standard frame-building, fronted in crumbly red brick, possessing large glass windows showing dusty displays of goods. There was a paper taped or nailed or stapled to the wooden door. Painted on the doors themselves was _Buck's Pawn and Gun – buy, sell, trade_. Daryl's bike was parked in front of it.

Rick climbed on top of the Suburban and looked around. The pawn shop was the outermost business of the town. There was nearly a full mile between it and the next business – a Texaco station – before the houses and other shops started popping up thick and fast. He could distantly see only a couple of walkers, and they were far enough away that they didn't yet pose any threat. "T-Dog," he said, nodding to the store.

"On it," the man replied, drawing his machete. Glenn silently fell into step beside him.

The notice stapled to the door was faded and weathered, but still perfectly legible.

_Gone with evacuation.  
>Don't think it'll work.<br>Take what you need.  
>God help us all.<br>– Louis 'Buck' Statler_

Not much daylight managed to filter in through the dirty glass, but there was enough to see that far more of the pawnshop's inventory was untouched than in other towns they'd gone through. An official-looking notice lying next to the cash register indicated that Cataula had been fully evacuated to Ft. Benning not long before the last of the television and radio broadcasts.

Glenn grinned at T-Dog, and he had to grin back. "Fuckin' Christmas," T-Dog muttered.

Glenn nodded, then reached out and rang the little service bell that sat on the counter – its original purpose to call clerks out of the back room, but now served just as well to draw out any walkers who might be lurking within the recesses of the store. When nothing showed, Glenn rang it again, several times in short succession.

Still nothing.

"Think it's clear," Glenn said.

"Think so, too, but I ain't willin' to bet my life on it. I'll do a room-by-room. You get the rest of 'em."

T-Dog waited until Glenn had started back to the door, then went behind the counter. There was a single archway leading to the back area of the business. "Dixon!" he called out. "Sophia – you here?" The first room consisted of innumerable shelves, packed to overflowing with electronics and musical instruments and weapons all neatly tagged with pawn tickets and awaiting the return of owners who were never going to show. Another archway opened into a short hallway that terminated in a fire door with a dark exit sign above it. On the left was a door that was standing halfway open. It proved to be a washroom, kept surprisingly clean. Opposite the restroom was a small office, also neater than T-Dog expected. _Don't think even the dust's as bad in here_.

T-Dog sheathed his machete and returned to the main store, satisfied the place was safe enough for the moment. The rest of the group was already sorting through the guns and ammunition that remained. Rick was standing off to the side, staring at something on the floor.

"Whacha see?" T-Dog asked.

Rick gestured to the dusty floor in front of a display of bows. Clearly imprinted in the dust were three separate sets of tracks – one was obviously an adult's, the other two were either women or young teens. "Looks like Dixon's found another survivor," Rick commented.

"Explains why his bike's out front and he ain't here," T-Dog agreed.

* * *

><p><strong>Then<strong>

Daryl counted up the days and almost couldn't believe his total. _Seems like it's been only a couple of days at the most_, he thought, repacking their gear into the bike's saddlebags. _Then again – sometimes, it seems like it's always just been me an' her_.

Sophia walked over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Somethin' wrong?" she asked, seeing the slight frown on his face.

Daryl shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Just realized we been runnin' fer close on ta two full months now. Fall's comin' an' we still ain't been able ta get closer to the fort than that junkyard." He mentioned the place where, just two weeks earlier, the bike's chain had snapped.

Sophia looked behind Daryl to a stand of trees. Some of them were starting to show yellow and red among the leaves. She wrapped her arms around herself. _He's right – it's not gonna stay summer for much longer. I wonder what day it is? My birthday's coming up, I think. _"So… What're we gonna do?"

"Ain't decided yet," Daryl replied, reaching out to re-tuck the troublesome lock of hair back behind her ear. Sophia had lost her headband at some point and hadn't replaced it. Her hair had grown long enough to brush the tops of her shoulders.

Sophia faced the wind, which was coincidentally the direction in which Fort Benning lay. "Can I ask something, Daryl?"

"Ya just did," he said, vague teasing in his voice.

She kept staring in the direction of the fort. "Mom an' Deputy Walsh an' the rest – they didn't come this way, did they?"

Daryl let out a sigh. _Damn it. I was hopin' she wouldn't never get ta askin' on that._

Sophia turned around and met his gaze. "You woulda said somethin', wouldn't ya?"

"Ah, hell," Daryl groaned. He sat sideways on the bike. "Yer gettin' too observant, ya know that?"

Sophia took a couple of steps, halting just in front of Daryl. A strange smile quirked her lips. "All 'cause of you," she said. "But… I'm right, ain't I? The group – they didn't come this way."

Daryl shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't think they did. All the back-trackin' an' detours an' side-roads we been down, I ain't seen any sign of a group that size – save for that time we ran 'cross them fuckers what had Lissa an' them other girls."

Sophia's smile turned fierce and feral for a moment, recalling just what had happened to the men Daryl was talking about after she and Daryl had freed the women from their cage, then she sobered. "Where d'you think they are?"

"I honestly don't know, 'Phia," it just about tore his soul out to tell her, but he wasn't about to start lying to her now.

Sophia closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. She hadn't broken down in sobs since Lissa and she wasn't about to let her emotions get the best of her, not when Daryl was simply putting voice to something she'd been thinking for several days. When she felt less like curling up and crying, she took a deep breath, then said, "Well – what're we standin' around here for?"

They finished packing up, then rolled out, following a two lane blacktop through backwoods Georgia.

When the light shifted from full day to early afternoon, Daryl slowed and started looking for a place they could pull off and camp for the night. After only an hour of searching, he found _Buck's Pawn and Gun_. He pulled to a stop in the wide area on the road that served as the business's parking area.

With his crossbow loaded and leading the way, they entered the store – Sophia had the crowbar in a solid two-handed grip. Daryl paused just inside and slowly scanned the showroom, starting with the area immediately to his left. He got as far as the left corner before his eyes halted.

"God… Are you real?" the Tennessee accent was thicker than Campbell's condensed tomato soup, and cracked sharply on 'real'.

Daryl only lowered the crossbow slightly. The speaker was a kid, _maybe_ fourteen years old, with curly dark hair. He stood at just a shade shorter than Daryl, and was wearing a pair of battered sneakers, jeans with holes in both knees, and a grimy black hooded sweatshirt. "Ya got a name, kid?" Daryl said.

"Sky," the kid said, his voice cracking so badly he sounded like a wobbly fan belt. He stopped, blushingly cleared his throat, and tried again. "Skylar Jamison," he said. "From Nashville."

"What the hell ya doin' this far south inta Georgia?" Daryl questioned, his bow steady.

The kid nervously swallowed, glanced from the bow to Daryl's face, to Sophia standing next to Daryl, and back to the point of the bolt on the crossbow. "Was spendin' the summer wi' my dad down in Tallahassee… Well, I was s'posed ta be. Dad sent me ta Camp Whitalaker over by Lake Harding. Mosta us at the camp were 'vacuated ta Fort Bennin'."

The more the kid spoke, the less Daryl considered him a threat. He lowered the bow to point harmlessly at the floor. "And?" he said. "Ya ain't at the fort no more. Gonna say why?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophia finish scrutinizing the showroom and turn her full attention to the kid.

"I was on the last bus outta camp," the kid said, his voice cracking on both 'last' and 'camp'. Clearing his throat, he continued, "They was usin' army busses. Buncha guys jumped the bus, though, just as we was comin' inta Columbus. Shot the driver. I guess they figured we was soljers. Bus crashed. Me an' Gary Oliver managed ta get away." The kid's face screwed up like he was going to start crying. "Managed ta make it almost ta Fort Bennin', but we got there just as they bombed the place. It burned ta the ground…"

"What happened to Gary?" Sophia asked, trading a glance with Daryl. Daryl nodded. Sophia walked over to the boy.

"Them _things_ got 'im," Skylar said, his voice nearly indecipherable between the waver and the squeaking. "'Bout a month ago now." He shakily reached out to Sophia's hand and the girl let him grab it. "Been on my own since."

She squeezed his hand with hers, casting a questioning look back at Daryl. Daryl let out a soft huff of air, rolling his face to the ceiling, then gave Sophia a nod. _The kid's harmless,_ his inner monologue said. _But bein' on his own – in this world – for _any_ amount of time, he likely got more backbone than he's shown so far._

"You ain't alone no more," Sophia said to the boy, holding tightly to his hand. "I'm Sophia. That's Daryl."

"He your pa?"

She shook her head. "No. He's _Daryl_," she said it as though it should mean something to the kid. Perhaps, if the kid stuck around, it might.

"There anythin' worth eatin' in this place?" Daryl asked.

The boy startled a little, tearing his eyes from Sophia. He shook his head. "No. Came here 'cause I figured there might be somethin' I c'n use 'gainst them things out there. Been usin' a baseball bat, but it got bent all outta shape an' weren't no good no more."

They spent a full two days in the pawnshop, camped out in the office, while Daryl did some scouting and managed to wrangle up some supplies. In addition to a prodigious amount of candy and soon-to-expire bags of chips from the Texaco down the block, Daryl brought back a mid-eighties Jeep; the Jeep had four-wheel drive and a winch on the front, and was bright yellow with a black canvas top.

Skylar proved to Daryl that the boy hadn't been slacking off at camp – the kid was pretty good for his age with one of the pawnshops lighter bows… _Even if he is payin' a bit too much attention ta 'Phie._ Daryl mentally scheduled some time to have a 'chat' with the boy. _Maybe when I'm cleanin' the .45 an' my nine-mil._

* * *

><p><strong>Now<strong>

Rick took a moment to rifle through the pawnshop's office. A small pile of empty cans overflowed the room's trash can and there was almost no dust on anything save for the useless computer taking up space on the desk. The shop's ledger book rested next to the keyboard. Not yet ready to rejoin the group, Rick flipped the book open. The pages contained information he expected – dates, dollars, names, and item descriptions with inventory tag numbers. Nearing the middle of the book, though, Rick felt a lump. It was the same sort a pen would make, so he skipped ahead to what he was expecting to be the shop's final page of entries.

He was wrong.

_Mom,_

_I really miss you. Daryl's gone to see if theres any shops that haven't been cleaned out yet. We met a boy here. His name's Skylar Jamison. Hes nice. Kinda squeaky and tends to hog the bathroom but hes nice._

_I wish I could send this to you, but I can't. I'll just leave it for you. Maybe you can find it._

_I'm ok. I promise. Daryl's really alot nicer than I thought back in Atlanta. He taught me how to hit what I aim at and now we have some silencers for the guns, hes going to teach me how to shot. I hope you wont get mad at him for it. Before we found Sky yesterday it was just me and Daryl and we have to keep each other safe so it makes sense I learn how to shot._

_Please don't be mad._

_Sky told us they bombed Ft. Benning, so I know you aren't there. Daryl says he knows a place we can stay. After we get suplies together we are going to go there. His uncle owned some fishing cabins on the Chatahoochie that Daryl thinks mite still be there. They are just south of Lake Harding._

_I really hope you find this._

_I hope your ok._

_I hope we can wait long enough for you to find us._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_Sophia Marie Peletier_

Rick sat the ledger down and scrubbed his face with a shaking hand. "Dad?" Carl asked, startling him a little.

Rick looked up. "Yeah?"

"What's wrong?"

Rick shook his head. "Nothin'," he said. He picked up the book and handed it to his son. Carl quickly read the letter Sophia had left for her mom. "Whacha think?" Rick asked, honestly wanting his boy's opinion.

Carl tore the page with the note on it out of the book and leveled a hard gaze at his dad. "We're going to find them." It wasn't a question – the simple statement was filled with absolute certainty and total faith that they would catch up with Sophia and Daryl… And this 'Sky' person, too. Carl laid the book on a filing cabinet by the door and tucked the letter in his pocket. "They're out there and we're gonna find them."

And really – what could Rick possibly say to that?

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:** Just so you know, in the bits where I'm showing what someone's written, the grammar mistakes and misspellings are on-purpose, so there's no need to point them out. Any other mistakes y'all spot, feel free to lemme know.

Kindly lemme know what y'all think! Thanks in advance.


End file.
